I think the stars are eyes. Singular white unblinking eyes, always staring, never averting their gaze, bright and piercing. I started thinking this way when I was a kid, perhaps because I’d decided that if a god does exist, it must be a cruel being. Rather than accept such a god, I went the other way, and decided there are no ‘gods’ like the ones mentioned in prevailing religious texts. Instead, there are just the eyes—all the eyes, forever watching us.
At night, they watch over us. Now there’s an interesting phrase. Watch over us. When most people hear it, they feel secure. Like a parent, or a guardian looking over, protecting you from the world you don’t understand, from dangers you don’t know, and from beings whose intentions you cannot guess. But also from errors within you, from the mistakes you made, from the poor judgement you exhibit. That’s what people want in life—a watchful eye.
I know all about watchful eyes. They’re not there to protect you, or stop you from making mistakes. They just wait, and watch, imagining horrors unimaginable. And when the time is right, the reach out, and touch you. And then, the darkness takes over, the coldness takes over, and all is gone in a swirling vortex. The worst part is, that isn’t death. That’s still life.
As I grew up, the opinion came and went. I sometimes believed it, I sometimes didn’t. I talked about it, a few times, but mostly people who heard it laughed at me. They thought it was absurd. People always think things are absurd when they don’t agree with the established order, so that is not surprising to me. What they don’t realise is that the absurd does not have to be untrue. If you look at it in a particular way, everything that is true is absurd.
Then, the star blinked. My body seized up, and after a brief pause, my heart began pounding with thunderous intensity. The star was blinking—at me. It was watching me, and it knew all about me, for it had seen what dark deeds I commit in the dark. I shut my eyes tight and opened them again, but the star continued to blink intermittently. I wanted to reach out to it and stab it in its bulbous white ball. But it was too far, too far.
After that, my obsession grew. I quit working in the caravan, and began working at the observatory. I cleaned the place, taking out the trash, making sure things were in order, and at night, sneaked into the library to read works I would never be allowed to read. I read about the stars, their positions, their constellations, about how they moved, how they appeared and disappeared. Much of the language was beyond my understanding, but I read.
And finally, I stood on the knoll, and stared at the blinking star, standing at attention. The eye watched. I watched it back.
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